


how can you tell

by orphan_account



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Amputation, Bad Ending, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blindness, Boys Kissing, M/M, i am aware this is already a thing, yes that tumblr post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:05:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2177268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koujaku rescues Aoba from the hands of Clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how can you tell

**Author's Note:**

> based off of [this](http://wideop3n.tumblr.com/post/70463848998/alternative-ending-where-koujaku-takes-his-time) fanart right here. yes, i know this idea has already been dealt with but i really liked it & thought it was interesting so i decided to toss in my own interpretation. [here's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1141643) the original happy-smutfic version if you want to read it.

 

"Hey, Aoba - I'm home."

I look over to the boy on the bed, waiting for a reaction. Eventually, Aoba's lips part - delicate, deliberate - and he signs the word _hungry_ with slender palms.

Ren stirs from Aoba's side, as if to assent to his owner's need. I watch a bit, watch as Aoba feels around for the blue lump of fur, and digs his fingers roughly into the soft warmth when he finds it. Ren says nothing, and lets Aoba embrace him, perhaps a bit too passionately. I can see small patches on Ren's outer skin where the synthetic softness is beginning to loosen, falling off in small clumps. Like a child's stuffed animal.

"Aoba is hungry," Ren asserts, after a minute of my silence. Not for the first time - or the last - I wonder what it's like for Ren, what he sees when he looks at his master.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe I'm overthinking it.

I step into the kitchen, and raid the pantries for anything I can feed him. My hand finally backhands a box on the highest shelf - and, unsurprisingly - it's rice. Already opened. Probably stale by now, if I've forgotten about it for so long.

The cooking pan clangs in vain as I take it out of the cabinet, and half-slam it down onto the counter. It's rustier than hell and I can almost smell the copper on it, but what the fuck can I do? I sneer at my metallic reflection, pour in the rice and water and set the whole thing on the stove to cook. Aoba is frozen on the bed, head cocked; his listening pose. Ren seems to be asleep again.

"Rice," I announce, cheerfully, like we have any other options - "how does that sound, Aoba? I might be able to go out and get some vegetables."

His fingers snap together vehemently. _No._

"No?"

Ren snuggles up closer to him. _Koujaku. Stay here._ He makes a budding flower with his hands - the sign we came up with for my name, like the pink peonies spanning my back. We've done a lot of improvisation since he became responsive. His fingers are still sloppy and obtuse, and oftentimes, he'll have to repeat himself five or six times before I catch on.

But it works just fine.

"All right, all right." The smile materializes before I can catch myself - I turn it into a laugh, so Aoba can hear. Silent elation, wordless frowns, gentle touches and goodbye-waves; they're all things of the past. Bad habits. It gets frustrating, having to laugh so often and so lightly.

But there's benefits, too, because he only knows I'm hurting when I sigh out loud.

Sometimes, when the quiet stretches out long and heavy, when I'm breathing on his ear but he can't hear me speak - he'll sign into my palm, fingers fluttering with uncertainty: _Koujaku. Koujaku._ _Sad?_ Again and again, until I respond.

I try not to think about it, though. Nowadays, I try not to think about anything.

I lean over to get a stirring spoon out of the drawer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him; he's doing it now. Big, graceless gestures. You'd think he was just calloused, the way he touches.

_Bad day?_

_No customers?_

I make sure he hears the grin in my tone. "No, no," I say, mouth stretched wide. The rice boils in the pan, fighting against my voice. "Work was fine. How about you, Aoba? Are you doing all right?"

He doesn't respond to that. He never does.

"Speaking of work," I continue, pressing through the silence, "your hair's getting so long. Want me to cut it? Promise I'll be gentle."

Immediately, his body stiffens. The sudden jerk is enough to wake Ren at his side, who sees me - and then Aoba - and sits up on dark haunches.

The hollow echo sounds. "Are you all right, Aoba?"

_Shit._

I'm frantic. A million things are racing through my mind as I rush over to the boy on the bed, placing terrified hands under the small of his neck and back. Vaguely, I notice he's sweaty and fever-hot - probably from laying in the same spot so long. His spine's turned to steel, and I can't coax him into my lap well enough to embrace him.

"Aoba? Aoba? Want some water?" The bile rises, warm and sick and fast, in my chest. I fight to swallow it down. The last time this happened, he was waxy-flexible for almost a week. I'd clasp his hands with mine and when I let go, his arms wouldn't go down. I couldn't do anything about it, and I thought he'd be that way forever - it was terrifying - until, one day, I came upstairs and he was holding Ren like always-

All of the sudden, without warning, he collapses into my arms. The full force of his weight is enough to make me stumble, and I sit down on the bed - hard. It's only then I notice that my fingers are knuckle-deep in his hair, and his hand is warm, on top of mine.

His chest swells and recedes in quick little huffs, forehead already damp with perspiration. With a sloppy, sweeping gesture, he takes his hand and moves it upwards, downwards, searching across my body. Before I can react his mouth collides with my chest and saliva meets fabric; he latches onto me for stability, and practically dissolves into the imitation kiss.

Breath snags hard in my throat. I have to swallow it down to keep from choking. "Ao - Aoba?"

He presses against me again, now with more urgency. And - I would be confused - distressed - if this was the old Aoba, if this had never happened before.

But it has.

It does.

This, _this._ This is the worst part of the whole thing. This is how I know there's nothing left.

I don't think he ever knows what he's doing. I don't know how long he was there, or why, or what exactly they did to him. But I know how. I know the things I'd see, if I could Scrap, and I know he knows me but I doubt he _knows_ me anymore. In the way that he once knew things. They took that, and left him with this.

In a way, this is what I wanted as a child. This is what I wanted as a man, a thousand miles across the sea, away from him and so separate in mind and heart and body. _This._ I have it now, but I would trade it any day; I would trade it for his soul, because _this_ is what hell is really like.

It's not what I wanted.

At all.

Aoba can't feel the droplets on his face. He's still pressed against me, full of warmth, and I think - I think he's smiling. His lips are curved upwards in contentment, in a suggestion of happiness. His nails dig into my back as he claws for feeling - like he always does when we sleep together. His palm rubs against my skin until it burns, and he leaves red marks in his wake; sending shivers up my spine, something indescribable.

I grip him tighter. He holds me like his life depends on it. I'm heaving, now, but he takes each awful shudder for a gentle advance. The kisses he delivers are sloppy, half-violent, and _god -_ all I want to do is return them - that's all I want - but I can't see for shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, to clear out some of the water. I can taste the salt on my tongue, and my hand stills in the ocean-blue sea of hair.

_Kiss?_

He smacks his chin with his palm - once, twice. Misses both times. I can tell what he's trying to say, though. I press a finger to his cheek, hard enough to leave a bruise - and he smiles, melts into my arms once again.

He thinks I'm kissing him.

 _Koujaku._ He signs it into the fold of my stomach, the warmest part. He tries, desperately, to push my clothes out of the way.

_Koujaku._

The water on the stove is boiling over now. But he can't tell.

_Koujaku._

And, suddenly, I'm crying like a girl. All at once, voicelessly; body-quaking seizures, and it's all I can do to keep him from falling off my lap. The bed creaks softly with the force of it all, but he still fails to notice. He finds the space in between my thighs with his hands, and strangely enough, he hesitates. Like he's afraid to touch it.

Like - a glimmer of his old self. Afraid to hurt me.

But then, suddenly, he shudders back into his own skin, and begins to scrabble at me once more. _Koujaku? Clothes._ _Clothes!_

I let him try. He's getting so frustrated now; rocking back and forth in my lap, and he can't find his own dick either. Hands flying between mine and his, but coming up empty. He's trying to sign but the distress is turning him into a vain, hungry mess, and he's probably hard but I can't bring myself to look down there. My throat is on fire anyways.

_Koujaku.  
_

He's like a blank slate. Or a sex doll. An animated puppet.

"Aoba," I whisper. I lean right into his face, way too close for the old Aoba's comfort - and I breathe the tears all over him, until it looks like he's been crying too. Still, the kid is trying to find my fucking dick and it almost makes me laugh, how determined he is. He lets out a noise that sounds like he's gargling acid and then presses his lips together, exhausted, all damp with my snot.

"I love you," I tell him.

He lies still, and I think he's finally given up. I hold my breath, try not to move, because if he started kissing me again I don't think I could handle it. I repeat the words, one more time.

Just because I can.

His mouth droops, and Ren - Ren, who's been silent the entire time - finally decides to say something.

"Aoba," he monotones. Voice flatter than a scar. "He's fallen asleep."


End file.
